


where we're going we don't need roads

by oflights



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, M/M, Psychic Bond, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:30:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3141128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oflights/pseuds/oflights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geno keeps the mental door closed to his teammates in the summer, at least when he can help it; he doesn’t always check in like Sid does. They have other ways of doing that, text and email and social media, and now is the time when they’re supposed to have a break from each other. </p><p>Geno likes having his head to himself. It’s good for him to get it in order for the next season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where we're going we don't need roads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [umbrellacam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrellacam/gifts).



> Just a quick non-spoilery plot note (and there will be a spoilery one at the end): 
> 
> This exists in a mumps-free 2014-2015 season. While it was tempting to use the mumps a really interesting plot bump, it ran counter to something else I wanted to do. So imagine there's no mumps, it's easy if you try. 
> 
> Anyway, I really hope that you enjoy this, Cam! I had about a million different ideas for this really wonderful prompt, and I'm only sorry that I didn't get to write _all_ of them in here. This is probably going to be one of those verses I'll want to keep writing in, tbh. 
> 
> Thanks to Bridget for the super quick and efficient beta!
> 
> The title is taken from the instrumental by Pompeii, and [here](http://8tracks.com/oflights/where-we-re-going-we-don-t-need-roads) is the playlist I listened to while writing it!

Geno dreams that he’s on a lake.

He’s floating on an inner tube, and when he dips his hand into the water, it’s warm to the touch. He’s lying in the sun but it’s warm, not hot; his skin feels like it’s being rubbed by the rays. The water cradles him gently and Geno tips his head back and keeps his eyes closed, sunglasses slipped down the bridge of his nose.

For a while, all he can hear are the hushed sounds of the water lapping at the shore, and maybe birds in the distance, soft and cooing. Geno keeps floating. He doesn’t think about anything but how good he feels, how he could stay here forever, probably—safe and warm and relaxed, like he weighs nothing and takes up as much space as he wants. 

And at first he ignores it when he thinks he hears his name being spoken. It’s soft and gentle, barely audible over the water; Geno can feel the sound more than he can hear it, low enough that he can ignore it. He doesn’t want to answer. 

The sound keeps coming, though, lapping over his skin like the water. _Geno_ comes the sound, a voice now, a bit croaky and familiar. Geno’s nose twitches under his sunglasses, and he screws his face up. _Hey, G._

Geno brings his hand up, dripping water over his bare chest, and rubs at his face. He knocks the sunglasses off when he hears _Geno_ again, clearer now, like the voice is nearer. 

_What,_ Geno thinks, and then he opens his eyes and groans out loud.

His hand isn’t wet, but he had just jabbed his own finger into his eye. There weren’t really any sunglasses, which is just embarrassing. Geno sits up—in his bed, in the dark, and puts his head in his hands, groaning once more.

 _What,_ he snaps in his mind, fuzzy with sleep, body supremely aware that it’s the middle of the night and he’d been having an awesome dream that he would like to get back to. 

_Hey,_ comes the voice, and this is what had woken Geno up, stolen him from his precious lake—never mind that once he recognizes the voice he realizes that that’s where the lake came from. Geno groans out loud one more time, then groans in his head, projecting it pointedly so Sidney can hear it. _You okay?_

 _4 am, Sid,_ Geno answers with a glance at his phone, imbuing every thought with annoyance. _Why you in my head?_

It’s the summer, reasonably deep into the offseason. Geno keeps the mental door closed to his teammates in the summer, at least when he can help it; he doesn’t always check in like Sid does. They have other ways of doing that, text and email and social media, and now is the time when they’re supposed to have a break from each other. 

Geno likes having his head to himself. It’s good for him to get it in order for the next season.

And more than all that, it’s 4 am. Geno realizes he’s making inarticulately grumpy mental noises at Sidney, who is laughing at him. In his head, Sid’s laughter sounds a bit like the water on the lake, gentle and calming. Geno shakes his head and mentally pictures a door swinging a bit on its hinges, not closing, but not open all the way.

 _Wait_ , Sidney thinks, a bit frantic, his laughter dying off quickly. _You’re okay?_

_I’m sleep. 4 am here._

_I know._ Geno shudders, wondering how long he’d had the door open, how long Sidney had been poking around in there while he was asleep. If it were anyone else, he would probably be really pissed. When he can help it, Geno keeps the door closed. It slips when he’s asleep sometimes. 

Sidney never has the door closed. It’s exhausting, and it makes Sidney one of the best people he’s ever known, and also a little terrifying. 

_Why you here?_ Geno asks again, careful and clear, though he doesn’t always need to be with Sid. When they were younger, when Geno had struggled to communicate in any way with the team, verbally or mentally, Sidney always understood what he was trying to tell them, even if the projected words were garbled. In turn, Sidney’s thoughts were always clear and open and easy for him to get, right away. All those years ago, they were constantly chattering at each other in their heads, relying on impressions and feelings more than words, but even so Geno sometimes feels like he has _but I go out last_ imprinted on the inside of his brain. 

They’re older now. Geno swings the door again, threatening until Sidney answers him hesitantly. 

_I wanted you to hear it from me, before you woke up and saw your texts._

__Geno sits up a little straighter. He swings the door all the way open and reaches out, grasping, and Sidney gives it all up, easy and clear as he ever is. There is sadness, guilt, a grim resignation he recognizes painfully, and overwhelming it all is concern, warm and pulsing over Geno’s head.

He doesn’t really need Sidney to mentally tell him _Nealer got traded_. He can feel the trade thrumming through his thoughts, coloring every single feeling.

He shuts the door on some of it, has to, but he can still feel Sidney there as he lies back down and squeezes his eyes shut. 

 

 

Losing teammates from his head is a bit like losing teeth, in Geno’s experience. He likes neither sensation and avoids dealing with both when possible; he only wishes painkillers worked on his mind, too. 

Since he can’t use painkillers, he takes the simpler route and closes his mental door completely, reaching out to Nealer like he would a non-hockey friend who is moving away. Geno keeps the door closed, not thinking about how soon it’ll be closed to Nealer forever. It takes some time for that to work perfectly, and former teammates can get leaky around each other—there’s a reason he both loves and hates playing against Sergei, who can still get faint echoes from him, can project some back—but Geno won’t notice the progression because it’s the offseason. He doesn’t have to deal with this in the offseason.

Similarly, Geno mentally ignores the new acquisitions. That might come back to bite him in the ass eventually, when the season starts and he’s mentally out of sync with half of his team, but for now he decides it’s the best course of action. He wants to keep the door closed, and this shit is supposed to be for hockey, anyway. Nobody’s playing hockey right now. 

He likes the quiet in his head when it’s just him there, likes going about his normal summer routine and living outside of his head, talking to people in words that they both understand. It’s so good to be home. 

It’s peaceful, and for a little while he gets to enjoy that peace. Soon, though, Geno dreams of the lake again, floating on sun-gold water, and he’s not even fully awake when he realizes that Sidney’s there, knocking on the door when it’s not shut quite so tight in sleep.

 _What, Sid?_ Geno asks, rolling over and checking the time on his phone. It’s morning, which makes it the middle of the night for Sidney, and his thoughts come appropriately muzzy, sleepy and muted. 

_You were having a bad dream again, so I fixed it,_ Sidney tells him. The projection is soft, like a sigh, and Geno shakes his head against his pillow.

 _Why you here?_ He doesn’t thank him for the good dream because he doesn’t want to encourage him; the dreams Sidney projects are always good for him, always warm and comfortable, the lake poured straight out of Sidney’s head, and Geno is a bit addicted to it. He can admit that to himself, though he’s not quite ready to admit that to Sidney. He never likes being reminded that Sidney’s seen his bad dreams, either, even though he’s seen his share of Sidney’s. 

_Just checking on you_ is Sidney’s predictable if evasive answer. Geno presses a little, slipping further through Sidney’s perpetually open mental door, poking around for feelings behind projections. He sighs aloud when all he finds is exhaustion and real, earnest worry.

_I’m fine. Just text you today. Go to sleep._

_You sure you’re fine?_ Sidney asks, but he doesn’t press like Geno had. He waits for whatever Geno wants to project at him, and Geno sighs again.

 _Yes. Fine. Just bad dream._ He doesn’t even remember it, really, can’t shake his head of the feeling of Sid filling it up. His skin still feels warm like it’s under the sun, his fingertips like they’d be wrinkled from the water, though when he looks at them they’re not, of course. 

Outside, there is barely any light pushing at the edges of his blackout curtains, which means it’ll rain today, and part of Geno wants to go back to sleep and relax on the water again. But a bigger part of Geno wants Sidney to sleep more, and he tells him so again. _Sleep. Stay out of here._

 _You sure?_ Sidney asks again, but he’s definitely fading, his thoughts growing distant and even more muted. Geno’s not sure that Sidney hears him when he firmly projects _yes_ and then shuts his door just as firmly, stepping out of Sidney’s head as is polite when he’s asleep, and barring Sidney from reentering _his_ head. 

Geno’s up now and grumbly about it, but he goes through his morning routine gamely enough and opens up all the curtains in his house, seeking gray, dim light. He’s meeting friends for lunch in only a few hours but makes himself a good breakfast anyway, and while he’s waiting for the toast to pop, he tries not to scratch at the itchy desire to check on Sidney and make sure he’s sleeping.

He’s successful, mostly, because the toast pops and the TV is on and his mother calls him not long after all that, and then the day is in the swing of things and he forgets about Sidney, which is easy in the summer. That night, Geno thinks about him briefly as he gets ready for bed, but he texts him instead of projecting anything: _I’m have sweet dreams tonight. Be good, stay out._

Sidney doesn’t answer Geno before he goes to sleep, and if Geno has any dreams he doesn’t remember them, good or bad. He wakes up missing the lake, a little bit, and then shakes his head and gets up and starts another day.

 

 

Sidney keeps coming back, nudging gently at Geno’s shut door and only sometimes successful in getting him to open it. Sometimes Geno opens, projects nothing but exasperation and contempt into Sidney’s head, and then just lets him chatter about whatever he apparently wants to chatter about.

Other times, Geno maintains the status quo, keeping Sidney out unless he’s asleep and can’t do it consciously. He always has nice dreams, then, and they’re enough to soften the exasperation he feels into some kind of fondness. For all his prodding, for all his incessant captaining that somehow feels amplified this summer, Sidney really does just care about his team a lot. He cares about Geno. Maybe the best part of the mental connection they have and the openness that Sidney’s always insisted upon is that Geno can never doubt that.

“I’m gonna miss that,” Nealer says over the phone when Geno complains about it. He chuckles darkly, even though Geno has to glare at the wall and clench his fist for a second against the thought of Nealer having to miss _anything_ about being a Penguin. It just doesn’t sound right yet. “I already kinda do.”

Geno reaches out carefully, curiously. Trying to mentally reach Nealer feels a bit like running his tongue over a still-healing gap in his teeth, a sore gum. There’s the faintest hint of sensation and it just feels unpleasant and wrong, and makes Geno retreat into his own head and pout and then huff loudly over the phone because if he can’t be in Nealer’s head anymore, Nealer can’t be in his. They’ll _need_ words now.

“He still care,” Geno says, his voice a little croaky. He regrets calling Nealer a bit, but texting had been getting depressing after a while and he thought this would be better. It’s not. “Just because not captain, not mental, doesn’t mean not care. Shut up, Lazy.”

“You shut up, G,” Nealer says. He sounds more cheerful. “I’ll tell you what, I won’t miss the singing, that’s for sure. Or the counting. Or the—he’s so _loud_ sometimes, ya know?”

“Of course I know,” Geno tells him. “Know longer than you.” Geno’s loud too, sometimes, when things are a bit out of control and they’re way down or way up in a rough, turbulent game. Sidney is actually better at staying in control of what he projects, except when they’re playing the Flyers. Then every thought he has tends to spill out of him as if he were shouting it through a megaphone all through an intermission or a stoppage in play.

Loud is okay, Geno thinks. Loud can win Cups. It can also tank playoff runs. Last year, they both tried to be so careful. Sometimes it was quiet in the room, mentally and otherwise, and it wasn’t—Geno didn’t like it so much. This year will have to be different, but he’s not sure of how yet.

“I don’t know if Webs is loud,” Nealer says, thoughtful now. “He seems like he might be but I don’t know. It’s so weird not knowing that stuff yet.”

Geno gets that. He hates that there’s so much about the team this year that he doesn’t know yet, so much uncertainty. And then he feels guilty because if nothing else, he knows Sid, and Sid doesn’t change. Nealer doesn’t even have Sidney like that anymore.

“Ask Sid,” Geno suggests, clearing his throat. Nealer hums a bit dismissively and Geno narrows his eyes, even though Nealer can’t see it, can’t even picture it now. “No, ask him, he know Weber’s head from Olympics. Sid tell you if he’s loud.”

“I’ve talked to the other guys a bit,” Nealer tells him, sounding defensive and a bit petulant. It’s familiar and Geno rolls his eyes. “We text, and I have Dicky so—look, we just haven’t talked like that yet, okay? You know it’s weird with new people. And it’s the summer, anyway. We don’t do that so much in the summer.” _Except Sid_ goes unsaid, but they’ve talked about that already.

“Ask Sid,” Geno says again. He bullies a sulky agreement out of Nealer and, when they hang up, Geno sits for a bit, thinking. Nealer’s right, teams generally don’t talk mentally throughout the summer. It’s supposed to be break time, and all psychic bond experts seem to agree that breaks are necessary and healthy. Geno’s always agreed, too.

He reaches out to Sidney anyway, tentative and careful, ready to snap back at any moment if it’s a bad time. But Sidney greets him with a perky _Hey, G!_ and lets Geno see that he’s just finished on the ice and thinking about going swimming. He’s in Florida, Geno discovers, and practically twitchy with wanting to get in the water. He’s projecting the want so much that Geno can almost feel how the water would feel, can feel how happy it would make Sidney.

 _Go swim,_ Geno says. _Enjoy. I’m just check._

 _I might see turtles,_ Sidney tells him. _Matty swears he saw turtles. If I see them, you wanna see?_

 __Geno thinks about it, and Sidney waits patiently for whatever he projects, not probing. He thinks this is probably the exact opposite of necessary and healthy, and if their team mental guide ever finds out, he won’t be happy.

But it’s summer, and Nealer’s loss stings today, and Geno really kind of wants to see turtles. 

_Okay,_ Geno says. _Knock if see turtles._

 _I will,_ Sidney says. In their heads, it sounds and feels all the more like a promise, and all promises sound better from Sidney like that.

 

__

_Hey,_ Sidney says quietly just as Geno’s sitting down to dinner with a group of his friends. _Are you busy?_

 __He doesn’t have enough of the door open for Sidney to see where he is or what he’s doing—he hadn’t actually realized he’d had it open even a little bit, which is kind of disconcerting—and he looks around at the table before sending a mental shrug. The answer is yes, sort of, but Geno projects _no. Okay?_

 _Yeah,_ Sidney projects quickly, but Geno is already checking for himself and he doesn’t like what he finds, a buzz of anxiety, restlessness and worry that feels all too familiar. _Just need a distraction for a bit._

 _Where are you?_ Geno asks, because it’s not super clear from the images in Sidney’s head, all stark white and washed out in bright fluorescent lighting, maybe like a—

 _Hospital_ , Sidney says, and then very, very quickly he adds, _I’m getting my first PRP injection! It’s not going to take that long, I just don’t want to think about it right now. They’re taking my blood._

Geno tries to chase away the sick swoop of displeasure in his gut, because he’d known that Sid was doing this for his wrist and had asked Kadar a bunch of questions about it. He thinks about backing out of Sidney’s mind a little, because he thinks he can feel the pinch of the needle in the crease of Sidney’s elbow, the squeeze of the band around his arm, all underneath the queasiness of Sidney’s nerves and the very slight tremor in the thoughts he’s projecting. He doesn’t, though, can’t bring himself to. 

_If this works, I won’t need surgery,_ Sidney is telling him. It sounds like he’s been repeating these words for a while now, defending his choice to everyone, and Geno winces because Sidney shouldn’t have to do that with him.

 _Will work,_ he says. _Promise. Okay, help me pick food._ Geno opens his menu and opens his mental door, letting Sidney see it.

 _Oh geez, you’re at dinner,_ Sidney says, a frown coloring every bit of his mental voice. _I’m sorry, G, you’re busy._

 _Help me pick,_ Geno repeats firmly. _I’m translate menu, you pick food. Don’t think about needle._

 __It takes a bit more coaxing, but Geno is more stubborn than Sidney is polite, so he wins in the end. Every so often, he nods along when the friends at his table speak to him, but he can’t wrench himself out of Sidney’s head enough to really talk to them, and finds he doesn’t really want to.

On his end, Sidney has Geno’s dinner picked for him by the time his blood is all drawn, and while Geno gives the waiter his order, he still feels Sidney in the back of his mind, having the pressure of the band removed and then the slight stinging pull of the needle following. 

It’s a little weird, like he’s in two places at once, though unfortunately not the worst sensations he’s felt from Sidney’s head. Following his jaw injury, Geno and most of the team had all made a point to check in on Sidney mentally, because during his last major injury they couldn’t, and no one wanted to leave him alone again. There had always been some kind of pain or a haze from painkillers, and maybe the worst was the gnawing hunger that made Geno feel ravenous all the time and full of a desperate need to feed Sidney. After that, Geno felt like he understood his mother a bit better, too.

That was during the season, part of being a good teammate and keeping their captain involved, as painful as it was. Geno’s not sure what this is, because it’s the offseason, but he waits for his food, sips at wine, lets the conversation buzz on without him, and talks to Sid in his head.

 _They’re making my wrist numb now,_ Sidney narrates, which is probably not conducive to distraction but also seems like a nervous compulsion. _My blood is spinning in a centrifuge over there. Do you remember that from school?_

 __Geno is Googling that on his phone because the picture of it that Sidney’s sending isn’t really clear, and he says _yes, I use best_ once he translates it and contextualizes it. He can’t remember ever using one before or even seeing one, but at least he knows what it does now.

_Geno, I know you’re lying. This isn’t a phone conversation._

__Geno grins, and across the table Borya looks up and narrows his eyes at him, frowning. Geno can only shrug.

_How you know? I’m great science student, favorite subject._

_You’re lying so much,_ Sidney tells him, his mental voice skipping with laughter. 

_I’m not! So mean, Sid, now I’m not let you pick dessert._

_Don’t talk about dessert, please._ There’s a groan underlying Sidney’s projection and Geno smiles to himself, once again catching Borya’s attention. This time, he rolls his eyes pointedly at Geno and says, “You know it’s very rude to talk to the voices in your head at dinner.”

“It’s just one voice,” Geno says, taking an unimpressed sip of wine and relaxing back in his seat a little. Sidney is still thinking about dessert—once, on a Russian TV show, an interviewer asked him, “What does Sidney Crosby think about more than anything?” and Geno had blurted out “Food” before he could stop himself or consider the possible consequences—and it’s a comfortable if nervous chatter. Geno lifts his chin. “And much better conversation.”

The table laughs around him as Borya puts his hand to his chest. Mostly everyone looks fond, if a little exasperated, and Geno’s a bit surprised they even know what he’s doing, because he doesn’t really do this. But he supposes there’s no denying what he looks like and how he’s responding to Sidney; maybe if he had more practice he’d be better at schooling his face into blankness in this kind of setting. Sidney’s pretty damn good at that; he can be talking to 15 teammates at once in his head while giving interviews. 

_I saw cookies at the nurses’ station on the way in,_ Sidney tells him dreamily. _Maybe they’ll just give me one._

 _Going home after this?_ Geno asks, taking out his phone. He shuts the door on the fact of him trying to remember the name of the cookie service that does same day delivery but listens to Sidney sigh out _Yeah, supposed to ice it for a while._

 _Okay._ He finds the site, orders a mix of peanut butter and chocolate chip that he knows Sid likes, and throws in one shaped like a turtle wishing him a _Speedy Recovery!_ He opens the door again when the order is finalized and promised to be at Sidney’s house by midafternoon, sending out the image of the turtle cookie and the basket and projecting, _Cookies for you when you get home._

 __Sidney’s thoughts kind of swell for a bit, though he projects nothing. Geno feels warmth and affection that makes him smile, pleased that he’d done well. He turns that smile on the plate of food that gets brought out and put in front of him, lets Sidney in on the sight of the beautiful dish he’d picked, but Sidney barely spares it a thought.

 _Thank you,_ Sidney projects eventually. His mental voice has that tremor again, though now Geno is a little flushed with the assurance that it’s in a good way. 

_Welcome,_ Geno says. He lets Sidney feel how much he means that. 

 

 

Sometimes the offseason lasts too long and sometimes it doesn’t last long enough. Geno feels like he’s teetering on the edge of both these feelings. There are days when he just wants to get _started_ , to dig in and start figuring this Penguins hockey shit out again, especially once he starts up training.

And then there are days when he wants the summer to go on forever. He always misses hockey when he’s not playing it, and he’s never met another hockey player who’s felt any differently, but he also thinks of how much he misses home when he’s in Pittsburgh, how hard it is to be away from his friends and family for so long.

Those are the days he finds himself seeking out Sidney, or letting Sidney in when he pokes at him. Sidney in his head is starting to feel like a bit of a comfort, a security blanket, because Sidney has the wide expanse of the upcoming season spread out in his mind like a map. Even when Geno can feel him enjoying his summer, the prospect of Penguins hockey up ahead excites him all the more. He thinks it’s good that Sidney was probably the first mental impression all the new guys got of the team; he thinks just a brief glimpse at the inside of Sidney’s head would sell anybody on being a Penguin. 

It’s not always convenient, though, and Geno gets used to it enough that he slips sometimes, reaches out and opens up when he shouldn’t. One night it’s after he’s been with a girl, lying in bed while she snores softly next to him. He’s still a little sticky, flushed, and he can’t sleep, so he swings his mental door open and nudges at Sidney.

 _Whoa,_ Sidney says, and when Geno peeks behind the projection he feels some embarrassment, a bit of a mental scramble. He backs off when it merely heightens under his scrutiny but he can’t help feeling amused. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about; it’s not like he’s still having sex.

 _Hi Sid,_ Geno says, relaxing with his arms behind his head. _Good day today?_

 __Sidney’s quiet for a bit, though his thoughts are still humming, nothing projected or totally decipherable. He feels warm and a little uncertain and Geno tries to figure out why, making sure he’s not projecting anything too inappropriate. He’s not, though, and it’s hard to take stock of his feelings and pick out whatever’s making Sid flustered.

Geno just had sex. He feels good, still a little tingly, relaxed and content, if also weirdly compelled to check in and see if Sidney feels good, too. 

Sidney has definitely gotten worse than this from other guys. Mental sex leaks happen on the road all the time, and while it’s polite not to listen, to keep all the doors firmly shut, some guys make it more difficult. Max had projected all over the place whenever he had sex, and while Sidney was probably always polite enough not to listen on purpose, sometimes it was unavoidable. Sometimes Geno listened. Shit like that happens and they’ve all learned to deal with it as another part of the mental bond.

So post-coital mental sensations should not make this much of an impression on Sidney, and Geno is kind of really curious about it. He’s always wanted to ask someone like Sidney or Nealer or Sergei what the inside of his head feels like, what the texture and color and pitch of his thoughts are. He’s so acutely aware of the inside of their heads, that Sidney’s head is like a pool of golden lake water, bright and warm and enveloping, and he wonders if Sidney even knows that.

It takes Sidney a while to finally project _Pretty good so far. Not as good as yours, though._ He sounds a bit grumbly, and though Geno can’t quite unwind the feeling from the rest of them buzzing in Sidney’s head, he thinks he’s getting a bit of jealousy. 

He grins. _When last time you get laid?_

Sidney returns what amounts to a mental huff, and Geno almost laughs out loud. But that desire cuts off abruptly because then Sidney’s _thinking_ about it, just barely projecting it enough that Geno can feel slick skin on skin, a heavy body holding Sidney’s down, hot breath and corded, working muscles, and that’s—

That gets shuffled behind Sidney’s mental door before Geno can even fully process it. He’s turning it all over in his head, ascertaining that he now feels wide awake and alert and somehow more tingly, on the edge of aroused, and the troubling thing is that none of that really bothers him as much as the fact of Sidney hiding everything _he’d_ felt. Sidney rarely hides stuff in his head, even if he doesn’t project it all. 

Geno can’t remember the last time he _felt_ Sidney actively keeping something from him, and he decides he doesn’t like the feeling at all. He likes it less when Sidney projects _sorry_ and kind of mentally grimaces at him, snappishly adding _and I got laid last week, thanks._

He doesn’t sound happy about it, but Geno thinks that’s a consequence of oversharing, projecting by accident. Sidney usually has more mental control than that, and certainly the feelings he’d shared hadn’t seemed to make him unhappy at all. 

_Good,_ Geno projects, trying to relax a bit again. _Important for summer training. Most important part._

 _If you say so,_ Sidney says, still sounding a little put-out, though he’s calmed some, too. He gives Geno some impression of where he is, the image of a familiar Whole Foods flooding Geno’s mind, and something in the fact that Sidney’s in Pittsburgh again makes him relax a little. 

_Store up for winter,_ Geno tells him, grinning when he can feel Sidney’s smile like a little sunlit splash of water over his mind. _Like squirrel._

 _Maybe that’s what you have to do, but my dick still works in the winter,_ Sidney shoots back. Geno snorts a laugh out loud and buries it in his pillow when the girl next to him stirs.

In Whole Foods, almost 8000 kilometers away, Geno knows Sidney’s laughing, too. Geno soaks it up until he feels tingly again, happy and liquid. 

_Don’t buy gross Brussel sprouts,_ Geno says, feeling sleepier. _Gross. Be nice to yourself._

 _I’m gonna buy what I want, Geno,_ Sidney tells him insistently. _You’re not eating them._

_What’s point of mental talk if you don’t take advice? Listen to me, I know._

_You don’t know anything, I see your brain._ Sidney’s grabbed the Brussels sprouts. He’s still smiling, in his head and out of it, and Geno closes his eyes and sees the smile on the backs of his eyelids.

 _I know you,_ Geno says, a muzzy, half-formed thought that slips out across the mental bond and feels right anyway. It makes Sidney go quiet with projections again, though his thoughts swell up with warmth and something more undefinable, abstract but comforting to Geno. Basking in that for a bit is enough to make Geno fall asleep.

He dreams of nothing but the lake that night, and he wakes up feeling like summer could go on forever just like this.

 

 

With Sidney in his head so much, Geno slips almost seamlessly into the right mindset for the new season. His goodbyes are easy with a good, productive summer under his belt and he feels like he just ate a hearty breakfast and is ready to face the day. Sidney feels similarly, his mental voice a steady, reassuring hum in Geno’s head as he travels across the world to get back to Pittsburgh.

 _I feel ready,_ Sidney tells Geno, and Geno can tell that he’s being totally honest. _Do you?_ he asks, even though he could just reach into Geno’s head and find out.

Geno answers, patient and just as honest. _Yes. Me too._

 __That’s true through arriving in Pittsburgh, fighting a nap, crashing almost as soon as the sun goes down and then waking up much too early and pumped for an informal skate with the team. He’ll see Sid there, and he wonders if it’ll be weird seeing him in person again, hearing his actual, audible voice, but brushes that thought aside because he’s sure there will be more than enough weirdness going on at this skate—his first skate with all these new guys, the first time he’ll have to open his head to them—that any weirdness with Sidney will be largely secondary.

And Geno’s right about that, to a degree that’s unfortunate. 

Training camp can always be tough mentally because there are so many guys coming in and out, guys that will or won’t stick with the team, guys with little to no mental control and broadcasting every embarrassing, overeager thought they have to everyone on the team. It can be kind of a mess unless you know what’s coming, and Geno likes to think he’s okay at preparing for it: he takes the steps their mental guide always lays out for them to clear his head first, taking deep breaths, listening to white noise on the drive over, thinking of hockey and what he already knows about hockey, not what he might stumble upon in someone else’s thoughts.

And it usually turns out okay because it’s not something that really lasts; the prospects get sent down and their mental bond with the big club is stymied somewhere over the middle of Pennsylvania. Everything quiets down to the steady, familiar mental voices that Geno has known for years. Sometimes there’s a new guy or two, or a kid like Olli, who has the mental control of a seasoned vet and never lets anyone hear anything unless he wants them to.

That won’t happen this year, and Geno realizes this as he steps out onto the ice for the first time and, after keeping his greetings verbal in the locker room and taking one last deep breath, opens his mind to _everyone_ on the ice with him. 

It feels a bit like being spun around and then deafened, and the sheer force of newness in all the voices stops Geno in his tracks. He spends some time working to pick out the old voices, the dry steadiness of Kuni and the fierce, bright thoughts of Tanger, but he gets stopped up when he tries to find Brooksie and remembers—

“Hey,” comes a voice that’s not in his head, and it’s Sidney, skating by and smiling hesitantly. His eyes are crinkled and his forehead is creased and Geno wonders if he’s feeling the same thing, the overwhelming cacophony of _new-unfamiliar-wrong-not-team_ that’s got Geno reeling. 

Geno reaches out blindly with his thoughts, latching onto Sidney’s and sighing mentally in relief. Sidney feels calm and centered, and he’s filtering familiarity and patience through to Geno— _Downie’s not going to hurt anybody he’s just excited, Ehrhoff, Goc and Greiss won’t stop thinking in German, Horny’s a little nervous—_

“Horny?” Geno says out loud, letting out a gusty breath. Sidney’s smile grows stronger. 

“That’s what he’s called.”

“Maybe he nervous we call him Horny,” Geno says. He and Sidney both laugh and Geno’s in the middle of that when Duper slams into him, mentally yelling _no contact we’ll see, you ready for me Geno?_

 _Always ready for you, Pascal,_ Geno replies, and he wraps Duper’s fast, buzzing thoughts around him like a blanket. 

He’s not ready, though, not in general terms, and he thinks that’s because he knows the feeling of wrongness, of being unsettled and unfamiliar, isn’t going to go away when the young guys head back to their respective teams. There are so many guys that aren’t going anywhere, will stick around with their thoughts that aren’t any different than any other hockey players’ thoughts but still feel so new. Geno can’t help feeling wary, feeling himself close off a little as the skate winds down and a headache starts up in the base of his skull. 

Geno panics a bit when Sidney ducks out to head to New York, because Sidney, Duper, Paulie—they’re the ones that feel like they’re keeping Geno tethered, and Sidney most of all. Most of the guys he already knows are feeling somewhat like him, don’t really know what to make of the new guys, but Sidney is taking it all in stride, as calm and patient as ever, and Geno knows it’s because he’s been taking in the new guys in little fits and splashes over the summer, checking in gently and carefully. 

He’s trying to filter them through that reassurance for Geno, to fill in some blanks, and that doesn’t have to stop when he goes to New York, but Geno wanders after him anyway, catching up to him shucking his practice gear and worrying about whether or not he’d remembered his dress shoes.

“I really don’t want to go home first,” Sidney says out loud, turning around and then zeroing in on Geno’s distress. “Oh, hey, Geno—”

“It’s stupid,” Geno says, shutting his mental door firmly even as his mind aches to reach out and feel Sidney again. He needs a break, he thinks. “Know this happen, know all new guys, but—”

He shrugs, and he feels stupid, but Sidney’s earnest, real concern is a bit of a salve, his eyes wide and dark and expressive. Geno likes that he doesn’t always have to be listening to know what Sidney’s thinking, likes when it’s all over his face. He realizes he’s missed Sidney, even after a summer of sharing their thoughts more closely than ever before.

“Hey,” Sidney says, coming in close, his gear hanging off him. “It’s not stupid. It’s an adjustment, everyone’s going through it. It’s not going to be easy for anybody.” He frowns a little, thoughtful. “Except Olli, maybe.”

Geno laughs, shaking his head. “Everything easy for Olli.”

“Does your head still hurt?” Sidney asks softly, and Geno thinks about it and nods. “Then you should at least talk to Justin for a bit. You know he can get you set.” He rolls his eyes at the face Geno makes and starts to look stern. “Come on.”

There’s no shame in talking to the team’s mental guide; that’s what they’re there for, why every team has one, and Geno knows logically that aside from the coaching staff, the mental guide is the most important position on the support team. He has nothing against Justin, who is young but sharp and doesn’t let anybody bullshit him. He’s happy that Justin was retained. 

But Geno never really likes to go to Justin on his own. He’ll take his advice as part of the team and listen to his instructions when they’re handed out to everyone, but seeking him out has always felt like some admittance of failure that Geno should be more in control of. 

Sidney knows all of that, and probably wouldn’t suggest it if Geno didn’t have a headache. Post-concussion Sid tends to react on a hair-trigger to headaches, though, and Geno can’t blame him—Sidney’s concussion had stolen his mind from the team for months, lost to headaches that he had to be alone in dealing with. Nobody likes to think of it anymore. Sidney doesn’t like even the suggestion that something like that could happen to someone else on their team.

“Okay,” Geno says sulkily. He feels Sidney’s grin as if Sidney were projecting it mentally, washing over his head, but it’s really good to see it, too. Geno finds himself grinning back.

 

 

Justin basically benches him, which would be infuriating if Justin didn’t lay it out all clear and practical. 

“Get your mental house in order before you get it going on the ice,” Justin says calmly, correctly interpreting Geno’s twitching jaw as a bad sign. Justin can’t read any of their minds, but he wouldn’t be a mental guide if he didn’t know how to work their tells, read them without being in their heads. “You know that part’s the easy part, that’s what you know. Stick around, talk to the coaches, talk to the new guys and let them in slowly, then you start playing.”

“So like concussion,” Geno says, jaw still set unhappily. He wants to play hockey and his brain isn’t broken, even though it also throbs with the idea of learning the new system at the same time he takes in all the mental adjustments. 

“No,” Justin says. “Not at all like a concussion. You’re not sick, this isn’t a diagnosis. It’s just a suggestion.” He grins and throws up his hands. “I’m not a doctor, remember?”

That’s what he told Flower when Shero had insisted he and Justin start having biweekly meetings. “You’re not crazy and I’m not a doctor,” Justin said, and now it’s a joke. But Justin was good for Flower and therefore good for everybody, because if Flower doesn’t have it together, no one really does. 

“Fake job,” Geno says, narrowing his eyes and knowing the routine. “Burkle’s pool boy sneak in and get paid, I know you. Just fooling us.”

“That’s me. You don’t have to listen to a thing I say.” 

“You say this to others too?” He knows Justin won’t tell him shit about the other guys, but it’s nothing he can’t just reach out and pluck up on his own if he tries hard enough, and Justin knows that, too. If there’s anything Geno’s good at on the mental side, it’s finding answers in other people’s heads. He thinks of them like takeaways on the ice, and he’s really good at those, too.

Justin shakes his head. “Nah, I couldn’t tell anyone else to sit out like this. They couldn’t get away with it. Maybe Sid? But you know you can play hockey no matter what. Just take some time to get a feel for things in your head, in their heads, and then see where we’re at through camp. No pressure.”

It feels like a lot of pressure, but really it always has. He doesn’t think anybody else in the world can understand that as well as Sidney does, and then Geno’s always reminded that he doesn’t even have as much pressure as Sidney does.

He always tries to shoulder as much of it as he can, though. He knows how to do that and knows he can do better. And if this could help—“Okay,” Geno says, sighing lowly. “I take camp off and sit around like Lazy. Team need new Lazy.”

“That’s the spirit!” Justin says, stupidly cheerful. “Live the stereotype. Be the laziness you want to see in the world.”

“Don’t understand anything you say, Justin. Always so much talk, no sense. Don’t know why I listen.” He still has a headache. He slips the door open, seeking out Sidney and Sidney only, and finds him on the plane to New York, hand jammed into a bag of peanuts, and his headache isn’t really so bad. 

_You were right,_ Geno tells Sidney as he leaves Justin’s office. Sidney is sweetly smug back at him, and Geno could be mad at him, but when he goes home and naps he dreams of the lake again and can’t be mad at all.

So Geno sits out for all of training camp, though he’s always around. Justin talks to the coaches for him and Geno himself gives Johnston something of an explanation, a bit nervous, but Johnston just smiles kindly and says he understands and thinks it’s a good choice. “This is the most important adjustment,” Johnston says, tapping at his temple. He can’t read Geno’s thoughts either, but like Justin he seems to have a good read of him anyway, already, and he seems eager to learn more, like Geno is a book in a library of players that Johnston wants to consume. “Just listen for a while. Listening’s important.”

Geno listens. He absorbs an understanding of the new system not just from his teammates’ thoughts during exhibition games and practices, but from their fleeting impressions of it off the ice too, the way they run through breakouts in their heads constantly, watching and re-watching mentally like they’re viewing tape. 

Sidney—also sitting out but for an actual physical reason that made Geno worry deeply about his wrist until he was assured they’re just being careful about a strain in his calf—is doing this as well, though he takes to everything just a bit faster than Geno. Sidney is so good at taking in huge quantities of mental information and breaking it down into manageable bits, compartmentalized steps that anyone can follow. Geno finds himself picking things out through Sidney’s mind more often than not, finding it easier that way, and it’s comfortable, like the summer. As he filters through other, unfamiliar heads, Geno becomes so grateful for the comfort of Sidney’s head that he’s a bit faint with it. 

But for his teammates, for learning them, Geno forces himself to slowly comb through directly, to reach out carefully. The thought of letting _them_ in is still a little scary, and he finds himself reluctant to do so for anyone not in a Penguins uniform last year. He tries to warm up to that thought by warming up to them, getting sensations and impressions from them off the ice, too. 

He likes Hornqvist a lot, pretty much immediately. Better than that, _everyone_ seems to like Hornqvist a lot, especially Sidney. Hornqvist is open and friendly like Sidney, lets Geno in like it’s no problem, every thought there for the taking, happy and bright and excited. He is so _happy_ to be a Penguin and Geno can’t help getting caught up in that, reveling that. 

His mental experiences with his teammates are more like that than not, more positive than negative. Some guys are closed off, like Comeau, who doesn’t really project much but still leaks some uncertainty and doubt around the locker room. He’s not really sure what the Penguins want from him at first, sees the role set up for him and wants to fill it as well as surpass it, and Geno makes sure that Kuni and Duper are talking to him, because nobody has better experience with that kind of doubt than them.

Comeau clicks on a line with Goc and Spaling, works well with Downie when they’re running around making sure nobody’s going to fuck with any Penguins and if they do, they will kill them, and everybody likes his sense of humor. “You’re going to fit in well here,” Sidney tells him, and he says that to everybody but he really means it for everybody. Geno can tell Comeau opens up just enough to feel how much Sidney means that.

Going through his teammates’ heads like this assures him that he’s not the only one having trouble, and that makes him feel a little better even as it worries him. Camp thins out as the preseason goes on but the buzz of two dozen voices never quiets, thoughts tripping over each other and colliding until they flare a bit.

Johnston is good at mediating, settling things down and getting guys out of their heads and communicating all the better for it. He’d make a good mental guide, Geno thinks, and he wonders if that’s why he was picked, if the front office has bought into the idea that that’s the area they needed the most help in. Not for the first time, Geno’s relieved he can’t hear what any of them are thinking.

Out of everyone, Brandon seems to take to things first, easy, so that all the coaches are crowing about him and all the players are listening to him. Brandon’s thoughts are always calm, grounded and controlled, and one night at a team meal he leans in close and tells Geno, “I’m kind of faking it, honestly. I’m just used to this.”

“Used to what?” Geno asks, but he has an idea, and not because Brandon’s leaking anything from his head—he rarely does off the ice. No, he remembers how Brandon had new linemates every other game last year, remembers his frustration at playing with someone new every night, unable to read them or sync up with them mentally in time for actual game play. 

He remembers that frustration compared with the comfort of having the same linemates almost all the time: Nealer, who was so in step with Geno that it felt like they had the same brain, and Juice, who carved out his spot there and wouldn’t let them leave him out like they had for so many other left wingers. 

He’s not going to have that anymore, and considering that is absolutely terrifying, makes his stomach hurt. Down the table, Sidney suddenly looks up from his plate, narrowing his eyes at the same time Geno feels him project some worry, and Geno sighs and shuts his mental door. He didn’t know he’d left it open again. 

“It’s kind of like—the voices blend after a while, right,” Brandon is saying, and evidently he’d had no idea Geno’s door was open because he doesn’t pick up on his growing discomfort with this conversation at all. “You can’t tell them apart because you don’t know them long enough. You don’t know where anybody’s going to be, what their instincts are, what they like to do. So you just—you have to fake it. And you fake it long enough until you figure it out and everything makes sense again.”

Geno nods along, swallowing hard. “This year different,” he says quietly, not sure which of them he’s reassuring. “Not have to fake it, have one person always and know them.” He thinks of what Johnston has been saying and glances over at another table, the “kids’ table”, where Beau and Bort are holding court and, when Geno sneakily nudges in to Beau’s mental door, he knows that Beau is telling some of the WBS guys complete lies about Sid. 

“One time, he punched me in the mouth for bumping into his sticks,” Beau tells them very seriously. He nudges back at Geno, acknowledging him hesitantly until Geno sends a wash of emphatic approval over the bond. Then Beau grins his sharpest, whitest grin and adds, “And if you touch his water bottle, he fills it up and makes you chug the whole thing. He times you. It’s brutal.”

Geno does a gentle, careful sweep of the rookies at the table, trying to figure out who believes him. Most don’t, thoughts brimming with amusement and the requisite jealousy that Beau has the balls to even try this stuff at this point. Kappy is the only one that’s a little uncertain, nervous, but as Geno leaves his head he feels Olli stepping into it to reassure him. They smile at each other.

Brandon is smiling at Geno, still bent pretty close. “That’s new. You still practicing?” 

“Little bit,” Geno says, shoving more food into his mouth and closing off. He still notices Sidney’s small half-smirk down the table, turned on his food but clearly aware of what Geno had been doing, and Geno makes a face at his food. “Just check.”

“Like Sid.” Brandon’s still smiling, amused and knowing with a confidence that always takes Geno aback a little, the confidence of a teammate they’ve had for years. As if he’s older than he is, or more of a leader than anyone expects of him, closer to Jordy than not but still fine with falling short.

“This year different,” Geno says again, clearing his throat. Brandon’s smile grows and he opens his mouth and Geno rushes to get them back on track. “You play good with Beau, you keep Beau. Coach like.” 

“ _I_ like,” Brandon says with relish. Everybody likes the camp that Beau is having, and everybody is excited about it. Geno’s unsure of how it’s going to work with Horny, unsure of when they’ll even get to try it out, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be excited about the performance Beau is putting together, the clear, bright drive racing through his every thought. The inside of Beau’s head is sharp and creative and nothing like what it seems, and Geno knows from playing with him however briefly that it’s a mind that’s perfect on the ice.

It makes it all the more devastating when Beau goes down in practice. Geno isn’t on the ice when it happens; he’s chatting with Terry in the trainer’s room when Beau gets brought on, hobbling in between Stew and a barefoot but geared up Paulie, mouth tight and drawn with worry.

Geno doesn’t hesitate to open up, to reach in and pick up on the blast of icy fear, pain and panic Beau’s broadcasting. It’s horrible, and immediately he feels out of his depth—he’s glad that Paulie’s here, that Paulie stayed with him, because he’s seeing what happened over and over again, playing out in Beau’s head. 

“It’s okay, Sunshine,” he says gruffly. Beau shoots him a panicked, confused look, and Geno firmly adds, “You tough, they check you out—” And the rest of it’s in their heads, trying to push through calm and support and chasing away the endless chant of _not again not again not again not again_ going through Beau’s head like a heartbeat. 

Also in Beau’s head is Sidney, Geno can feel him. He’s doing the same thing, so Geno backs out, claps Beau on the shoulder and tells him he’s okay out loud before beating a hasty retreat and escaping into the kitchen. He closes off.

He’s drinking a smoothie by himself, mind carefully solitary, when guys start trickling in, all clucking worriedly over Beau. Brandon tells him what happened with a grim, unhappy look on his face, even though Geno saw the way Beau’s knee bent in his head, doesn’t need it described again. He thinks everyone felt how scared Beau was and it’s still hanging over them all like a storm cloud, until Sidney walks in with a towel around his neck and says, “It’s not as bad as it looked, guys.”

He goes right to Geno, stands next to him at the counter while he relays what he’d apparently snooped out of Beau getting news from the doctors, and everyone kind of lets out a breath at once. Chatter picks up and guys start separating and Sidney stays near Geno, nearly touching, glancing at him and then glancing away. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “You made him feel better.”

Geno snorts, shaking his head. “Don’t be stupid. Not have to thank, is my team.” 

“I know it’s been tough and I know you don’t usually like to—”

“Is _team_ , what, you think my head follow Nealer to Nashville?”

Sidney’s mouth tightens, and he shakes his head. His eyes are dark and full of something that Geno is immediately picking through his brain for, swooping in neatly and helping himself to everything’s Sid’s got. 

It’s like being dunked in ice water when he hits _something_ and Sidney shuffles it behind a door, closes up a little. His mind is suddenly in overdrive, offering up all sorts of real feelings of gratitude and affection and more worry for Beau and he’s projecting _he has the worst luck, God, we have to stay healthy this year, we can’t—_

 __“Sid,” Geno says, and then he stops. He doesn’t know how to ask _what were you thinking_ because he’s never, ever had to ask that with Sidney. Sidney doesn’t hide things, not so Geno can ever know they’re hidden. 

He doesn’t know what to say, or even project, and Sidney isn’t looking at him, but he is thinking clearly. _I’m just really glad you’re here,_ Sidney says, and he bumps his shoulder with Geno’s. 

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else,” Geno says out loud, as grumpy as he is touched by the sentiment. But he thinks he gets it, too—without Sidney, and Duper and Kuni and Paulie and everyone he _knows_ really well, inside and out, this season would be even more terrifying. _It’s not just you,_ Geno projects, bumping Sidney’s shoulder back. _Not this year, not any year. It’s me and you and team._

 _Right,_ Sidney says, firm and resolute. He takes a big breath and points to Geno’s smoothie and asks, “Are you gonna finish that?” and rolls his eyes when Geno snatches it away. 

“Get your own,” Geno says, and wordlessly Sidney does. He’s still pointedly not thinking of something, hiding it, and Geno backs off when Duper joins them. 

Beau’s injury puts somewhat of a damper on things, even though he winds up well enough to tell Kappy, “Sid sent Siller after me, you know. You better watch out.” Kappy says he doesn’t believe him but looks to Olli anyway.

Preseason winds down and there is still so much that’s uncertain. It feels like everything that the coaching staff wanted to have figured out and nailed down has been upset one way or another, and there’s a kind of anxiety humming through everyone’s thoughts as a result. It makes Geno antsy to get started, bullishly determined to just make it work somehow, even if they have to figure things out on the fly. 

“I’m play in first game,” Geno tells Johnston, who just nods thoughtfully. 

“You think you’re ready?”

Geno almost lies, it’s on the tip of his tongue, but somehow he thinks he’d get called on it, so he shakes his head and laughs a little. “No. But who is ready? Tanger and Hoffer think three languages together and they partners. Olli’s head ready of course but maybe not shoulder. Nobody knows lines yet, who stay yet. So no one ready, but can’t make season wait for us.”

Johnston has started grinning, small and a bit mischievous. “Well, I know the lines, Geno. It helps to know that you’re in. You’ve played some right wing, correct?”

The question catches him off guard, but he nods. “Yes, with Sid.”

“We’re gonna start you there, get you acclimated and let Suttsy do some of the heavy lifting for you until we get sorted. Then we’ll see where we’re at and reevaluate. But you’re absolutely correct, the season isn’t going to wait for us.”

Geno knows that a lot of the new system is based on thinking, going through options and finding the right plays. Nobody’s going to know how to do that until they actually start doing it, and nobody’s going to know each other’s minds until they start learning each other in games. He _knows_ he can do that, and thinks of what Brandon said about faking it until it feels real. 

“Okay,” Geno says. He doesn’t think about playing out of position or the potential headaches that might come from slotting together mentally; he squares his shoulders and says, with all honesty, “I’m do whatever I need for team.”

Johnston grins at him again. “I know.”  
 _  
_  
 __  


The first game is loud, confusing, and absolutely fucking wonderful. It’s a panoply of different voices, mental and audible, shouting at each other and colliding on the ice, pooling together to pull out a ridiculous win that feels _good._

 __In the early games, Geno’s not really sure what’s working, if he’s listening to Brandon and Duper enough, if he’s overriding them too much in his head, if they’re even doing what he’s saying. He doesn’t have to be in their heads to know that Sidney is on a roll with Kuni and Horny, that that might be something that sticks, and on the powerplay he understands why: they listen to each other and project at each other with ease, and Geno loves being a part of that.

The powerplay is destroying teams, and even when Geno makes the transition back to center and tries to settle back into something normal in his play, the powerplay rules everything. It worries the guys who don’t play on it much, suggests something fleeting and artificial about their early success, but Geno can admit to getting caught up in it with the rest of the guys on the first unit. He can’t help it.

“You and me and team,” he tells Sid when they’ve got their heads bent together and he’s just put one in past Halak on the powerplay, surrounded by Horny, Tanger and Kuni. It’s in their heads, pulsing through their thoughts, and Sidney nods and projects it right back. _You and me and team._

Horny gets another on the powerplay, they kill every penalty they take, and they hand the Isles their first loss of the season. Geno feels high on the buzz of everyone’s happy thoughts in the room, jolting when the sharp, jagged edges of Downie’s triumph poke through, and he makes sure to project _good, Downs. You do good._

 __Everything Downie sends back is wordless, boundless joy that he then puts a lid on, a wisp of embarrassment just before he shuts his mental door. Geno feels Sidney’s eyes on him, feels the warmth of his approval and affection, and he reaches out mentally to meet it when Sidney backs off again.

The sensation of Sidney stuffing something behind his scarcely-used mental door would be unpleasant enough to put a damper on his mood if they hadn’t just won, if Horny wasn’t going _whoo!_ every so often and making Geno’s heart skip and flutter with excitement. It’s a sensation he’s starting to get used to, still something he doesn’t know how to bring up directly, so he avoids it and concentrates on what he should be concentrating on: hockey. 

“Listen to each other,” Johnston tells them, preaching it constantly. “Just keep listening until you can anticipate what your linemates are thinking before they project it.” He tells Geno on his own, “Listen to your instincts, Geno. They’re some of the best I’ve ever seen.” 

Geno doesn’t think anybody expected them to be this successful this early on, and he decides Brandon Sutter is some kind of genius for suggesting they fake it until it works for real. _How you know when it’s real?_ he asks Brandon when they’re not on the same line anymore but still sitting next to each other on the bench, still attuned to each other’s thoughts. 

Brandon shrugs, physically and mentally. _I don’t fucking know, I’m just a third liner, right?_

 __They both laugh out loud, drawing Comeau’s attention and making him shove them together and butt in mentally. _Missin’ each other, eh? Back off, Suttsy. Get your own liney._

“Get ready for change,” Geno says, smacking him on the back of the head and getting the attention of the rest of the bench. There are dozens of little mental conversations going, verbal ones too, and it’s spirited, good considering the disaster that last night’s Flyers game had been. The new guys are resilient and Geno likes feeding off that, likes letting it drive him. He knows his game could be better but he thinks it’s getting there, and he feels good about the game they’re playing right now, up by two on the Wings.

They blow the game late in the third, shuttling them into overtime, and they blow that too. It’s a different group that heads back to Pittsburgh, tired and discouraged, and Geno doesn’t like how quiet they are. 

_Nice goal_ he projects at Olli. He’d told him already, everyone had, but Olli is curled up in his seat at the back of the plane across the aisle from Geno, and he wants to remind him. 

Olli nods, projects nothing but _thanks. Nice assist_ and then quiets down again. Olli is always quiet, always shut off, and Geno used to think that maybe he’d open up more the longer he was on the team, but it hasn’t happened yet. 

He reaches out to Sidney next, an instinct, missing the relatively constant chatter of the summer to the silence between them now, and finds Sidney listening in on Flower and Greiss going over every goal together. _Okay?_ Geno projects, at all of them really, but the goalies shut him out after huffy affirmations— _you too, Sid!_ —and it’s him and Sidney and the bond, quiet again.

 _Of course I’m okay,_ Sidney says, and he lets Geno feel that he really is. Indeed, he’s already thinking ahead to the next game, trying to push through the traces of unhappiness he has with the game he’d just played and thinking of how he can fix it. Yesterday, that unhappiness had been there but not as bad as today; Sidney was broadcasting unhappiness about losing to the Flyers, as he always does, but he hadn’t been as bad as he felt he was today. _You’re okay, right?_

 _Of course,_ Geno says. 

_Of course you are. You played with our next Art Ross winner, Duper,_ Sidney says, and he lets Duper in, starts thinking loudly about how much he would genuinely love that, picking up an old conversation. Geno loses himself in their back-and-forth, closing his eyes and keeping his mind open until the plane lands in Pittsburgh. 

He tries not to think too much about the next game, when he’ll have to face Nealer on the ice and the lack of him in his head, but for all he dreads it it winds up being rather anticlimactic. He can’t tell if he anticipates some of how Nealer plays because he knows him or because he’s still getting some echoes of projections, but prodding at it too much hurts, so he lets it go and plays his game and scores a goal and calls Nealer “Lazy”, passes by the Nashville bench and reaches in for a fist bump. 

Geno almost, _almost_ feels a splash of amusement, familiar love blooming through his mind, but in a split second it’s swallowed up in the thoughts of his own team. It’s almost not so weird that that doesn’t include Nealer; his thoughts always felt like a slobbery, overeager dog lying down on him, heavy and sometimes rough, and there’s no one else that quite replicates that, but the ache from missing it has faded somewhat. 

They grab dinner that night after the game, a blend of old and new Preds and Pens, Nealer a little hesitant around Sidney and Kuni at first until he has a few beers and opens up the same as always. They don’t talk about the trade, or even much of the game, and they stay out of each other’s heads for the most part, too much of a mix of new bonds and broken ones at play. But it’s good, Geno thinks. He has a good time.

“Nealer started all of this,” Sidney says in his three-almost-four-beers voice when they’re waiting for the car back to their hotel. They’re standing in their own little huddle surrounded by other clusters—Weber with his head bent low so Horny can talk in his ear, Spaler snickering with Duper and Kuni, Paulie and Nealer close and uncharacteristically quiet.

“Start what?” Geno asks, reluctant to open his mind and find out the easy way. He doesn’t want the missing tooth sensation to hit him again. He doesn’t want to miss Nealer when he’s a few feet away.

Sidney gestures between the two of them, shrugging. “You know. Talking over the summer. Talking more in our heads.” Getting closer, Geno thinks. He’s pretty sure that’s what happened, that maybe the fact of that got lost in all the other changes this year, but he can feel the truth of it. 

“I think it’s been good for everyone,” Sidney says when Geno doesn’t say anything back. “You’ve been really—it’s been good.”

“Think so too,” Geno finally says. He gives Sidney a small smile, puts a hand on the small of his back when their ride arrives and they start shuffling towards it. 

In the car, they sit next to each other, close, all Penguins now, and anyone could hear them but Geno doesn’t really care; they’d hear it in their heads, too. “You worry about me,” Geno says quietly.

Sidney’s sitting close enough to him that he can feel him shrug again. “You know I did.” 

Sometimes Sidney gets annoyed when they talk out the obvious, the stuff they’ve already gone back and forth with in their heads. He doesn’t sound too annoyed tonight, just thoughtful, and Geno imagines that if he dipped into his head there would be a whole mess to muddle through, probably nothing he could discern. “I shouldn’t have, though,” Sidney says, surprising Geno a bit. He has his small half-smile on, crooked and shifty. 

“No,” Geno agrees, leaning his head back on the headrest. “Never have to worry about me.”

“I know,” Sidney says. He looks out the car window. “I know I don’t. Everything else can change, but you—”

“Always here,” Geno says. If they were on the ice, he thinks he’d cup his gloved hand over Sidney’s helmet, stroke down to his neck. This feels like something to celebrate, especially when Sidney says, “Me too,” in a voice that’s almost hushed. But they’re in a car, and Horny is listening to them, face soft in the side mirror up in the passenger seat. Geno presses their arms together and sighs.

“Good.” 

 

Finding out about Olli brings back too many memories of last year, the mind-numbing fear that swept the team when they all found out about Voky and Tanger. Geno doesn’t fully understand any word but cancer at first and that’s terrible, but Sidney breaks it down for him in their heads, reassuring him and calming him. 

_You know,_ Geno says at the end of it, when his head is full of nothing but Olli’s good prognosis and his strong, blank face promising them that he’ll get through this. He’d told them the worst part is telling other people, because everyone is more afraid for him than he is for himself. Geno silently promises to lighten the load and not be afraid at all.

 _Yeah,_ Sidney says, his face twitching. They’re about to all split up after practice, though people are lingering. Tanger still has Olli in the dressing room in all of their street clothes, their heads bent together and having a silent conversation that Geno wouldn’t dare interrupt. You don’t interrupt D partners unless it’s on the ice and at the exact right moment, and you don’t interrupt a guy that’s had a stroke talking to a kid who has cancer. 

Sidney’s watching them, but he starts heading out when Geno touches his arm and follows him. _Olli told me when he found out._ He feels apprehensive behind his projections, like he’s expecting Geno to be mad at him for not sharing.

Instead, Geno feels some kind of relief, more than just from the reassurances that Olli’s going to be okay. _This what you were hiding_ and there should be no reason to hide anything now. 

Sidney winces. Geno’s behind him but he can feel and see how much the muscles in his face move, the wrinkles just below his temples. _I’m sorry,_ he says, and that’s not quite right—not exactly what he feels, not _just_ what he feels, and Geno is frowning even before Sidney backs him out a little, pushing until Geno’s just inside the mental door and faced with what Sidney wants him to see, not all that’s there. 

“Understand,” Geno says out loud, because he’s found he doesn’t like being in Sidney’s head only halfway, and he closes his in response. Part of him wants Sidney to feel all the hurt and confusion burbling up inside of him, the pressing need to burst out with _what the fuck is going on_ both in and out of their heads, the way he would in any other situation, with any other person, with the Sidney he’s always known who never kept him in the dark. But there’s the bigger part of him that’s always kept a lid on that stuff, practiced at it, and he hates the thought of Sidney practicing, too. 

Sidney turns to him, his face tight, and Geno huffs. “Olli tell you not to tell, so you keep secret. Good captain.”

“I’m terrible at keeping secrets,” Sidney says, looking down at their feet and rolling his eyes. He huffs, too, but at himself, and Geno pinches his arm and pushes aside the idea that Sidney is _still_ keeping some kind of secret because he thinks it’s going to drive him crazy, and it’s in their heads, anyway. That’s not supposed to be a gamechanger off the ice.

“Good job,” Geno says, and Sidney laughs. “Proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Sidney says dryly. Then he adds, “I’m glad you know now, though,” and it’s quiet and full of meaning that Geno aches to pluck out of his head.

He wonders what Sidney’s hiding more and more as they slip into November and some of the new shine on their season fades a little. It’s the middle of the month before anybody realizes that Sidney’s been holding his stick a little too tight, not really happy with the games he’s putting together and his drop in goal-scoring. 

Usually that kind of feeling radiates from Sidney at all times, everyone can feel it. Last year’s playoffs had been rife with it, an oily and unpleasant undercurrent to every game they won or lost. Geno always imagines waves on Sidney’s mental lake, not so rough but rocking menacingly, but this year Sidney hides that, too. It leaks, because Sidney really is terrible at keeping secrets, but not to the degree it would’ve if Sidney weren’t hiding it. 

Geno hates it. Last year’s playoffs had been an exercise in winning games for Sid and his wrist, who couldn’t carry them like he had so many times before. Their own failure had brought them all down, not anything Sidney couldn’t do for them. And he doesn’t like the hints of guilt and fear he feels from Sidney, as if he’s afraid of doing exactly that. 

He talks to him about it, but Sidney, like any of them really do, resorts to clichés to deflect: he’ll push through it. He’ll get over it. He doesn’t want it to be something that affects the whole team. “The chances are there,” he says, and Geno gives a full-body shudder because he’s not a reporter and _he_ means it when he assures Sidney he’ll come out of it. 

Sidney was hiding something before he started slumping. It wasn’t Olli, it wasn’t holding his stick too tight, it was something else, and as this keeps going, Geno wonders about just—finding it, getting it out of him and getting it out in the open for the good of both of them and the team and his own hungry curiosity. 

Geno could do it, he thinks. He knows every embarrassing childhood story there is about Nealer, knows that Max loved Flower more than Flower ever realized, a different way than Flower ever realized. He’s good at picking that stuff out and then keeping it forever, locked down because he would never use the stuff nobody wants him to know against them.

It’s not nice, he knows. It’s a talent but not one of his good ones. And Johnston keeps telling him “Listen to your instincts” but Geno doesn’t know if he should in this case. He doesn’t know if he should do that with Sidney. He’s never had to before. 

He keeps himself from it, just barely. And then they find out about Duper and Sidney can’t keep a lid on _anything_ ; his misery and fear is palpable and crushing and he’s not alone in it.

They’re all devastated, and Geno thinks that’s why Sidney doesn’t hold any of it back, because when they’re all feeling the same thing they can feel it together and it gets easier to bear.

Losing the Isles home-and-home doesn’t help, and they kind of limp into December, shell-shocked by Duper and steeling themselves for whatever could possibly come next.

December is a mess. If Sidney was holding his stick too tight in November, he’s grinding it into sawdust now and trying even harder to wrangle the feeling into hiding. “Stop,” Geno tells him one night, when they’ve lost and won and lost again and they can’t fucking beat the Rangers. “Stop doing this. Let us in, let us help.”

“It’s not your problem,” Sidney says, gritting his teeth. And Geno shakes his head and projects, as firmly as he can, _of course it is. It’s all our problem._

He can feel that Sidney believes him, and can feel when Sidney denies him, shutting him out again.

Injuries are creeping in again, setting everyone’s teeth on edge to remember last year. Geno thinks they handled it better then; this year they seem to be white-knuckling it, grasping for control and order as the mental makeup jumbles with call-up after call-up.

The new guys don’t feel so new anymore. Geno knows the feel of Comeau’s head now, knows Horny well enough the more they play together. He doesn’t think anybody’s faking it anymore, but it’s not quite working all the time, not quite lining up the right way, and maybe they’re not faking it but they’re not finished, either. 

December becomes a month they have to get through, like Sidney’s slump. Geno tries to stay positive and keep people looking ahead, and he keeps going after Sidney, poking at him mentally and chasing him the way Sidney had for him over the summer. Geno puts his head down and handles all the new linemates, ignores any headaches he gets from all the new voices, but this is a change he won’t abide. 

He makes sure he’s almost always in Sidney’s head, chattering at him, checking on him, picking out whatever he can. Sidney mostly tolerates it, even if he’s still guarded, that _something_ always shoved behind the door, not the full force of his mind that Geno’s always had. At this point, in this mess of a month, Geno will take what he can get. 

_I should kick you out,_ Sidney says drowsily. They’re both at home, about to fall asleep. Geno is saying goodnight, and behind Sidney’s projection lies the overwhelming, honest feeling that Sidney’s glad he’s there.

Geno grins at his ceiling in the dark. He stays in Sidney’s head until he falls asleep, then makes sure he has good dreams that night.

He checks in with Sidney the next night before they go to bed, on the road, and this time Sidney _does_ try to kick him out because he’s jerking off. _Geno, go away,_ Sidney projects firmly, but his feelings are a mess of embarrassment and need and desire, hot arousal flaring so brightly in his mind that Geno can feel it licking up his own spine.

He starts to retreat, he really does. It’s polite, road protocol, and Sidney isn’t even projecting anything. He’s not hiding anything either, though, the door wide open enough that Geno can feel Sidney’s hand on his own cock, slick and warm and tight, stroking himself. He should step back now but the temptation of the open door is too much and he finds himself lingering, just for a bit.

 _Fuck, G, please_ —and the pleading note in Sidney’s next projection is more complicated than it should be. He’s ostensibly asking him to leave but his desire is flaring, white hot and bubbly, and Geno can’t make his mind move when Sidney’s is calling out to him like that. 

Geno squirms under his sheets, inches his own hand down towards his own pants and just cups his dick, but that’s enough to make Sidney go a little crazy in his head. _Now_ he’s projecting, and not on purpose, too far into it to stop, and Geno feels it all, Sidney’s hand and even the wet sounds he’s making, the precome leaking from the tip of his dick, the barely coherent projection of Geno’s name rolling on waves of pleasure.

He doesn’t know where the thought originates, doesn’t know if he’s the one that puts everything together and realizes that Sidney wants him, or if Sidney projects exactly that and Geno hears it. All Geno knows is that he _feels_ that as Sidney comes, strong enough to make him hard as hell and swear softly into his pillow. It’s powerful and forceful and Geno’s never, ever felt anything like that in his head, not from anyone else.

He’s still hard as he feels Sidney coming down, contemplating doing more about it than just rubbing his dick over his boxers, but then Sidney’s head clears. Shame and absurd guilt floods the bond and then Sidney is pushing at him, pushing him out.

Geno digs his mental heels in and says _Sid, wait—_

 _Get out get out get out I can’t BELIEVE you,_ and the anger Sidney sends might need to be pushed past the embarrassment but it’s very, very real. 

Geno deflates and starts to relent, letting himself be pushed and standing his ground only to project back _it’s okay, Sid, we—_

 __Sidney slams the mental door shut and keeps him out with steely resolve more reminiscent of Olli than anything Sidney’s ever managed.

 

 

“It’s okay, Sid,” Geno tells him out loud at breakfast the next morning. He’d rather do this in their heads, but Sidney’s not letting him in there. “Is not a big deal.”

Sidney gives him a poisonous glare, his eyes still glittering in anger. “I wasn’t leaking, Geno. I wasn’t projecting. You just came in and—”

“It just happen, not gonna think—is not worse we see in teammates’ heads,” Geno says, trying to sound more confident than he necessarily feels. He knows he did a bad thing, knows it was wrong, but he can’t fully regret it because now he knows that Sidney—Sidney wants him. And that doesn’t feel like a bad thing. Geno’s going to have to examine why, work that out before he can work anything else out, but he has to reassure Sidney, too. “It’s _okay._ ”

“I’m telling you that it’s not! You violated my privacy. You were wrong. You’re supposed to say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” Geno says dutifully. Sidney makes a lowly frustrated noise and stands up so quickly his chair scrapes loudly against the floor. 

He’s more and more sorry the longer Sidney shuts him out completely. He’s making a concerted effort of it, too, constantly on guard against Geno, refusing to share even a single thought or listen to anything that Geno projects. 

It’s horrible. It makes Geno feel like garbage, and Sidney spits, “Good,” when Geno tells him so, not letting up. He doesn’t think Sidney feels any better and thinks that’s the worst part. He doesn’t have to be in Sidney’s head to know how he feels, really, not when he’s around him all the time anyway, and not when he’s known him this long.

The guys all notice they’re in a fight, because Sidney’s not keeping everyone out, just Geno. Geno combs through their heads for pieces of Sidney’s thoughts like an addict, hungry for them, concentrating on that instead of thinking about _why_ he misses Sidney so much, about how he’d jerked off after Sidney kicked him out. He’s jerked off thinking about it since then, thinking about how it feels for Sidney to want him, and he’s done it so much it’s pretty much impossible to deny that he wants Sidney back in some way.

He doesn’t know what way. He wants to know before he shows Sidney, so he keeps it locked down, his own to work out.

First, Geno has to make things right.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, trying to project it too. Sidney bounces back anything he projects, but he’s listening to Geno’s words, at least. He probably heard the guys talking about Mom and Dad fighting, and maybe the pressure of the powerplay tanking is getting to him, too, because his shoulders are slumped and his head is tilted towards Geno, waiting for more. 

“Sorry for what?” 

“For listen,” Geno says immediately. He’s not sorry he knows, though. He can’t be. “Sorry for hurt you. Never want to hurt you, ever.”

“Okay,” Sidney says after a while, slow and cautious. “I accept that, I guess.” He doesn’t open up—Geno knows because he’s knocking, he’s always knocking, and it’s still crushing to not be let in, but he has to be patient. That’s part of being sorry. 

“Sorry,” Geno whispers one more time, and Sidney nods. His arms are folded over his chest and he’s standing stiff at the smoothie bar and Geno misses the inside of his head so much it feels like every tooth he has has gone missing. 

He’s still feeling that ache that night, when he’s lying in bed and trying to fall asleep and jolts as Sidney projects, _You get what the worst part was, right?_

 _What?_ Geno asks immediately, not probing for it, just waiting for whatever Sidney wants to give him.

 _I was glad you were there,_ Sidney says. _I was mad at you and I was still glad._

 __He doesn’t know if Sidney hears _Glad I’m there too_ before he snaps the door shut again, but Geno projects it as hard as he can.

 

 

The end of December is in sight, and by the time the holidays roll around they’ve picked up some more injuries and decimated WBS with recalls. Half their team are kids whose holiday plans got turned around because of the call-ups, and while most of the older guys are heading home for the break, Geno knows Sidney’s staying in town.

Geno tells himself that’s not why he’s staying in town, too, but he doesn’t think anyone buys that, least of all Sidney, who gives him a flat sort of look when they talk about their plans and then says, “I’m doing a Christmas Eve thing at my house, just for all the rookies. You should come too.”

“Okay,” Geno says before he can even think about it. He thinks about it after, though, trying to push how much he likes the thought of that at Sidney. Sidney opens up a little, just enough so Geno can feel the faint, shivery glow of his happiness, and then closes off again. Geno hates it as much as he ever does but he gets it, too. 

Brandon makes fun of them for days for being Mom and Dad and hosting all the kids, but Geno puts on his ugliest Christmas sweater, brings a $200 bottle of wine to show off even though Sid is the only one who will recognize it, and heads over there with purpose.

He’s the only one in an ugly sweater; most of the younger guys are in the only suits they have in Pittsburgh. Olli and Scott both have their hair combed very neatly and Beau has his dress shirt unbuttoned so much Geno can see his undershirt. “Sick sweater, G,” he says, winking exaggeratedly. He’s perched on the arm of the recliner that Bort is sprawled in, eating a Twizzler and watching the endless loop of Christmas movies Sidney has on the TV.

“Where is Sid?” Geno asks, because he’d just walked right in and found the kids mostly congregated here. He can hear other voices from the kitchen, Dumo and possibly Pouliot, so Sidney can’t be far, but he wants to give him the wine.

“Struggling in the kitchen,” Bort says, stealing Beau’s Twizzler and finishing it in two bites. Geno rolls his eyes and goes to find him and is stopped by Sidney power-walking down the hall, in dress socks and nice slacks and his shirt all tucked in. He looks a little crazy around the eyes, and behind him, Pouliot looks a bit worried. Dumo looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

Geno grins and holds out the wine. Sidney takes it, looks at the label, and snorts. He keeps ahold of it and continues into the living room to stand in front of the TV and announce, “Okay. We’re ordering pizza.”

Beau and Bort both give something of a Bronx cheer so Geno goes over and smacks them in the back of the head, one each. “You deserve,” he says when they complain, giving everyone else in the room a withering, warning glare. Olli hides a smile in Scott’s shoulder. 

It’s a bit of chaos to figure out what everybody wants, and poor Desi is tasked with writing it all down. Geno’s glad to stay back and watch, a little glad they’re staying out of each other’s heads tonight because it could be even more chaotic. He smiles at Sidney mediating an argument about green vs. black olives, smiles at his Christmas tree sagging in a corner because it’s so full of ornaments. 

He pokes at Sidney’s head and finds him open, listening to everybody even though nobody’s projecting anything. Sidney lets Geno in, meets his eyes and smiles, and doesn’t push him out this time, even when Geno asks him _can’t cook?_

_Bite me._

__Geno takes the opportunity being presented to go through Sidney’s head a little more. It’s the first time in a while that he’s been allowed to. It feels good to know that there’s nothing held back, no secrets now, but the force of Sidney’s love and warmth still takes his breath away.

He sees _so much._ He sees that Sidney got all the rookies Chipotle gift cards, which is absolutely ridiculous. He sees that he set the table with real china. He feels that Sidney is so glad that Geno is here with them that he’s a little sick with it, heart skipping with both anxiety and happiness in turn. 

He knows that Sidney’s going to hide the bottle of wine when he heads back towards the kitchen. _Don’t follow me,_ Sidney projects, because he doesn’t want Geno to see the wreck of the ham he’d ruined in the oven, but Geno’s seeing it anyway, and Geno follows him anyway. 

Geno waits until Sidney turns around and can meet his eyes. He takes the wine bottle out of his hands and sets it on the counter. Sidney huffs, puts a hand on his sweater and says, “What are you even wearing,” and Geno takes his hand and keeps it on his chest.

He opens his mind to Sidney at the same time he leans in to him, pushes all the love and warmth he’d felt from Sidney right back at him, and kisses him softly on the mouth. He hears Sidney gasp and it all floods over them both, everything Geno feels for Sidney, even the stuff he doesn’t yet understand. By the time the kiss breaks, Geno can’t distinguish who is feeling what, and he finds he doesn’t mind at all. 

Sidney looks up at him, searching his face. It only takes another moment of stunned, swirling feelings before Sidney clearly, firmly projects, _I’m so glad you’re here._

 __“Me too,” Geno whispers, and he touches their foreheads together.

**Author's Note:**

> Last spoilery-ish notes:
> 
> We had no confirmation over the summer of what kind of injections Sid got as opposed to wrist surgery, but I assumed PRP injections and just carried that assumption here.
> 
> I also kind of futzed around with Christmas plans/scheduling for plot's sake.


End file.
